Chosen To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

“I wasn’t asking anything,” she said, then turned on her heel and headed toward her office again, the feeling that someth

ing wasn’t right at Mountain View greater than ever.

Chapter Eighteen

Oh, great.

Now Mom’s partner was going to try to give him some advice.

Jeremy saw it in the set of Selena Alvarez’s jaw and the way she walked straight to the table where he’d been asked to wait in this tiny little windowless room, an interrogation room, he thought. It smelled of sweat and bleach. Bad. And he was uncomfortable, always had been when he was near a police station. His mom had said being a cop was in his blood because both she and his father had been on the force, but uh-uh, no way did he want anything to do with law enforcement. He didn’t trust cops. Sometimes even his mom.

“Hi,” Alvarez said. All friendly-like. Though she wasn’t smiling. Mom had said she was intense. Jeremy wasn’t up for small talk. Just like he hadn’t wanted any cookies from the woman with the fake 242

Lisa Jackson

smile and weird clothes. “Have you found my mom?”

“Not yet.”

He’d thought he was ready for bad news, but he suddenly had trouble drawing a breath, as if someone were sitting on his chest. “I saw her car,” he admitted. “Totaled. At Horsebrier Ridge. It was . . . A tow truck was winching it up from the canyon floor.” His stomach twisted as he remembered the mangled wreckage. “Is she dead?” He was trying to appear in control of his rapidly eroding emotions.

“I don’t think so.”

God, this was freaky. Horrible. Jeremy felt his damned leg trembling and he wanted to scream. Mom isn’t dead, she isn’t dead. Not like Dad . . . oh, dear God, no . . . Mom isn’t dead. “You don’t know, though.”

“No. But your being here isn’t going to help. The best thing for you to do is to go home with your dad and sister—”

“He’s not my dad and I can’t go home. The cops are all over the place.”

“I meant to your stepfather’s house. Isn’t that where Bianca is? With Luke? And his wife.”

He lifted a shoulder. No one ever calls Lucky, Luke. Well, except Michelle, especially when she’s really pissed off. “I don’t keep track of my sister.”

“Maybe you should. Until your mom gets back.”

“What if she doesn’t?” Jeremy blurted out, his worst fears right out in the open, all of his confidence stripped away. His throat was tight and his eyes burned. Oh, shit, he wasn’t going to let himself cry. No way. But he was scared. Scared as hell.

“What then?” he demanded, his voice cracking a lit-

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tle. Holy crap, would he be stuck living with Lucky and Michelle? Could there be anything worse? And what about Mom? Where the hell was she? Alvarez was staring at him as if he was from outer space and he finally realized he was chewing his fingernail and spitting the bits onto the floor—something his mom hated and was always ragging on him about. From the looks the detective was shooting him, she wasn’t keen on his nervous habit either.

“I’m, um, I’m just worried.” He forced his hand to his lap, but his damned leg was still shaking nervously.

“I don’t blame you,” she said, a bit more kindly,

“but you can’t do anything down here. Trust me.”

He flinched. Whenever an adult started out saying those two words, “trust me,” it meant they were about to try to force you into doing something you just knew in your gut was wrong. “We’re doing everything we can to find her.”

“It’s not enough,” he said flatly and for the first time noticed the little camera mounted near the ceiling. Oh, God, was he being filmed?

Footsteps rang behind her and over Alvarez’s shoulder, through the open doorway Jeremy caught a glimpse of a tall man with thin, silvering hair heading their direction.

Undersheriff Brewster!